


The Prestige

by RadioFriday



Series: Talonverse [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Dick Grayson is not here right now please leave a message, Gray Son of Gotham, Hurt Dick Grayson, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Suicide Attempt, Talons gonna Talon, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, dark fic is dark, fuck it everyone needs a hug, is it actually deathfic if the death doesn't stick, is it actually suicide if you're already technically dead, the court of owls are bastards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27866653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadioFriday/pseuds/RadioFriday
Summary: To make something disappear, that isn’t enough. You have to bring it back. That’s why every magic trick has a third act.-- Christopher PriestThere's a new Talon in Gotham and it has a familiar face.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne
Series: Talonverse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015761
Comments: 18
Kudos: 224





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags! The implied non-con occurs in chapter 2 and it's not explicit, but it does involve unwanted touching and the implication of more than that happening in the past so please use your best judgment if that could affect you. The suicide attempt also happens in chapter 2.
> 
> This story takes place almost immediately before "Limbo" and can certainly be read without reading it first. 
> 
> I've taken some liberties with Court of Owls canon and what we know about Talon physiology-- sometimes intentionally and sometimes because I just didn't know and despite my best efforts, couldn't find an answer anywhere. Forgive me. Mwah.

“I think the Owls are testing out a new model, man.” Jason flinches as Tim stitches a gash in his left hip. Alfred hums and continues similar ministrations on Jason’s right bicep. The lights in the medbay are too bright, as usual, making the blood running down Jason's chest and arms seem all the brighter in turn. His jacket is discarded on a stool next to Tim-- ruined-- and they had already cut what remained of Jason's armor and shirts off when he came to-- Tim sardonically humming, "You got blood all over your bike," without even looking up from his work on Jason's guts.

“What makes you say that, Master Jason?”

“That was the fastest Talon I’ve ever encountered. That thing _had_ me.” Jason hisses as Alfred or Tim tugs on something a little too hard. They share a glance over Jason's battered torso. Tim raises an eyebrow. It’s unlike Jason to admit to anything coming close to beating him in combat. It’s unlike Jason to even hint at the possibility of being spooked by an adversary. It's unlike Jason to be spooked enough to come running to the Cave.

But it‘s also unlike Owls to target Red Hood unprompted. They went quiet for almost a year after Dick died and there was this sort of unspoken thought-- not hope, they're _bats_ not _ghouls_ \-- in the family that perhaps in death, Dick had finally dealt the Court of Owls a fatal blow-- denying them their prophesied Gray Son forever. Then, a few months ago, the Wayne Foundation Winter Gala was crashed by a pair of Talons-- and since when do Talons work in teams?-- and Bruce's office in Wayne Tower started receiving owl feathers in the mail almost daily. Tim as well, though not as frequent. Damian finds a dead Robin in his violin case one afternoon at school. They're all a bit on edge. It's not the first time Bruce Wayne has been in the Court's crosshairs, but they've typically left Tim and Damian alone, have ignored Jason entirely--Jason Todd has been legally dead for years now, after all. The Court also has a history of avoiding engagement with Batman and his allies altogether. Bats have a history of derailing things, after all. 

Bruce Wayne is a logical target. The Red Hood is not a logical target. 

Tim murmurs, moving on to a particularly nasty slash across Jason’s ribs, “They’re going after Wayne assets. Where were you? Did you interrupt something?” 

“No!” Jason calls Tim a "motherfucker" under his breath as Tim probes the torn flesh-- on the plus side, a Talon’s cuts are always clean, “I was in The Bowery. You’re more hands-on with the company than Bruce is these days. What Wayne assets are in _The Bowery_?” 

“Officially?” Tim looks thoughtful.

“Anything the Court would know about?” 

Tim shrugs, “Nothing particularly noteworthy comes to mind.”

Alfred moves on to a gash on the other side of Jason’s ribs, replies with a small grin, “An asset other than yourself, Master Jason?” 

The only reason Jason doesn’t launch into a profanity-laden tirade is that it’s Alfred who makes the comment. Alfred always gets a pass in Jason's book. 

And...admittedly...Jason is exhausted and sore and just wants to get sewn back together so he can go pass out on a sofa in the library, maybe swipe a couple novels on the way out. There are two stashed in his bike he's been meaning to return after he stole them the last time he was here and he's pretty sure the fact that he returns them after he reads them is the only reason Alfred hasn't raised hell about it yet.

“Okay. One: no, I am not on Brucie’s payroll. I finance my own operations, thank you very much. Two: Jason Todd is legally dead. So unless you are privileged enough to know that not only is Jason Todd not _actually_ dead, but Jason Todd is also the super badass vigilante known as Red Hood, you have no connection between me and Bruce.”

The three of them let that thought sink to the floor. No one makes a move to retrieve it. The thought is just too weighty, laden down with worst-case-scenarios and a whole baggage claim full of corpses. Instead, Tim says, “How did you get away? You said it had you pinned.”

Jason was barely conscious when his bike roared into the Cave via the emergency autopilot setting that brought it-- and its rider-- straight to the Cave if it was triggered within the city limits. He was on his second bag of blood and had only just stopped shaking enough for Tim and Alfred to start stitching him back up. The Talon had, unequivocally, kicked his ass. 

Jason shrugs and hisses as the movement tugs on his various wounds, “Lucky break? I don’t know. Maybe that one is still in beta testing. It was on top of me, knives out in one hand, literally bashed my fucking helmet open with the other hand and then it just...froze.” Jason smirks, “So I shot it in the head and ran like Hell.” 

“A headshot isn’t going to kill a Talon for long,” Tim says, "You just stunned it."

“I am aware of that, Replacement. I wasn’t trying to kill it. I was trying to get the Hell away from it before it snapped out of its major malfunction and remembered that it was trying to _murder me_.” 

Solo patrols are not allowed after that. 

***

The new Talon drops off the radar for a few weeks after the fight with Jason, but none of them are naive enough to think that Jason’s killshot did more than knock it out for an hour or so. By the time Batman got to the rooftop where Jason reported taking it down, there’s a smear of blood and a forgotten knife, nearly identical to every other Talon’s weaponry, except that it is silver with an iridescent mother of pearl handle, rather than the traditional bronze and gold. 

When it reappears, the Talon keeps its distance and doesn’t attack. Stephanie Brown dubs it “our fanboy” and gets benched for a week because she isn’t approaching the situation with the appropriate level of gravitas for Batman’s liking. Jason states that he’s had his fill of the “creepy fuck” and follows Roy Harper to an “Outsiders thing” in Las Vegas. 

Spoiler and Red Robin got the closest to the Talon after Red Robin fails to stick a landing and fractures his ankle at what Stephanie Brown would later declare “the actual most inconvenient time ever.” They had been trying to break up a gang fight between a faction of Jokerz and a group of Blackgaters in the East End. “Tim held his own while I concentrated on the Jokerz,” Steph explained to Leslie Thompkins while Tim’s ankle is x-rayed and booted. The clinic was closer than the Cave or the Penthouse and Batman didn’t want them to linger, injured, in the streets with the Talon on the loose-- even if the Talon had not provoked any of them since the attack on Jason weeks earlier. 

“Bruce is gonna have a stroke when he hears this,” Tim says. Alfred is en route with a car and Steph had briefly proposed simply _not_ telling Bruce that she was on her way back to Tim, had miscounted the number of hostiles, had allowed all of her focus to go to Tim and grotesque swelling in his boot. She didn’t see the clown-wannabe step out of the shadows, waving twin pistols. She heard the grunt and then a gurgle and whipped her head away from Tim to see the Talon pulling a pair daggers from the Jokerz’s chest and wiping them on the newly minted corpse’s garish colors. 

“Fuck,” Tim made a move to get up and screamed as he put weight on the broken ankle, dragging Steph back down to the pavement as his leg gave out. 

The Talon wore a matte black suit that seemed to absorb the meagre light of the East End alley. It wore light leather armor trimmed in silver thread beneath the bandoliers of knives and a dramatic hood, also trimmed in intricate silver embroidery, that allowed the Talon to completely hide its face. Steph took in the chin and nose visible beneath the hood-- paperwhite, except for the blue-black veins. It raised its hood slightly, revealing large yellow goggles trimmed in silver and mother of pearl. The whole visage created the effect of looking at a great gray owl. 

“Thank you, I think?” Steph said in a small voice, “Please don’t stab us, Mr. Talon.” 

The Talon backflipped and then leapt to a rusting fire escape. It reached the roof in seconds and Tim watched it run, then launch itself into a powerful quadruple somersault to soar between two buildings. 

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Tim said. 

“What?”

“I have a theory.”

“Me too. My theory is that the Talon is super hot and has an amazing ass.” 

When Alfred arrives at the clinic to take Red Robin and Spoiler back to the Cave, Tim asks if Batman is back from his own patrol yet. 

“Not yet, Master Timothy.” 

“I need him to come back immediately.” 

***

Bruce doesn't come back immediately because a bank alarm goes off in Robbinsville and no one in the Cave was dying, so Tim and Steph change into sweats and help themselves to the tea and sandwiches Alfred prepares. When Bruce and Damian return, it's after 3 and Damian barely acknowledges Tim and Stephanie on his way through the Cave and up the stairs. He asks if Alfred will bring some chamomile tea to his room, to which Alfred agrees, and then it is just Tim and Steph and Bruce in the quiet of the Batcave in early morning. This used to be Tim's favorite time in the Cave-- the quiet after a night of patrol, tea, and the possibility of sleeping in.

Bruce pulls his cowl down and looks away as Tim explains what they saw and what it means. Tim watches his shoulders gradually rise, so tense that they are almost touching his ears. 

“Tim, no, Dick Grayson is not the Talon.” 

Tim pushes. Tim has gotten comfortable pushing. That used to be Dick's job, but Dick is dead. Jason and Damian don't know how to push Bruce without breaking him. It's a skill. A talent. One that Tim has been perfecting in the empty space Dick left behind, “Name one other person who can do a quadruple somersault.” 

“Damian.” 

“And Damian was with you all night, so we know it wasn’t Damian.” 

Steph chimes in “Also, the Talon is definitely not thirteen years old. He's ripped.” She bites her bottom lip for emphasis and nods. Tim smacks her elbow. 

Bruce does turn at that, to glower at Stephanie, before turning back to the computer and hanging his head, “I know what you think you saw--”

Tim protests, “I don’t think I saw it, Bruce. I know what I saw.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim sees Alfred return from upstairs.

“And even if you _did_ see what you are insisting that Talon did, that doesn’t mean anything.” Bruce pinches the skin between his eyes, "You are elevating one piece of evidence to get the verdict you want."

Tim turns to Stephanie, “The quadruple somersault was the signature move of the Flying Graysons.” He smirks, “It’s how I figured out who Batman and Robin were.” 

“That doesn’t mean that the Talon is _Dick_ , Tim. You know better. I trained you better.” 

Alfred has been watching the back and forth with a weary expression. He quietly interjects, “Master Timothy, if I may?” 

“Of course, Alf.” 

“I was last at Master Dick’s grave only two days ago, to place fresh flowers for him and for Master Bruce’s parents. Nothing was amiss. Nothing was disturbed. Nothing _has_ been disturbed, in all the months since. I would have reported any such desecrations.” 

“I know, Alfred. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. We have to exhume--”

“Absolutely _not_.” Bruce roars and Steph flinches, but Tim doesn’t. Alfred resolutely studies the patch of stone floor in front of his feet. “You’re benched.” 

Tim gestures at his casted ankle, “Well, duh.” 

“You both are.” 

“What did _I_ do?” Steph protests. 

Bruce turns and looks Tim in the eye. Tim forces himself not to look away. 

“Have you told Damian about your theory?”

“No. Not yet.” 

“You will not tell Damian,” Bruce runs a hand down his face, “Not unless we know for sure.” 

***

Tim is running comms the night the truth comes out. His ankle is mostly healed, but his range of motion is not at 100% and Alfred hasn’t cleared him to leave the Cave, which means that Bruce has also not cleared him to leave the Cave. Bruce has not officially un-benched Tim or Stephanie, but Stephanie has been patrolling with Duke and Cass for the last week and Bruce hasn’t said boo about it so Tim is just going to hit the rooftops after his ankle is fully healed and Bruce is just going to deal with it. Tim thinks Dick would have been proud of him for that. It was just behind Tim, in the gym, where Dick's trapeze still dangles from the ceiling, that Dick put his hands on Tim's shoulders, looked him straight in the eyes, and said, "Robin lesson number 1: don't take Bruce's shit."

Bruce hasn’t discussed the Talon since the night Tim suggested opening Dick’s grave, but Tim has taken advantage of his recovery period to try to find more than a specialty somersault to support his case. Tim discovers that in addition to Damian, there is a Brazilian acrobatic troupe that features a quadruple somersault in its performances and Tim spends a truly ungodly amount of time watching video after video of their performances on YouTube, comparing the movements to what he remembers of Dick’s execution, comparing them to the smattering of Flying Graysons footage available online. The Flying Graysons performed on Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve when Dick was six. There’s a handful of commercials for Haly’s Circus that show snippets of their performance and Tim is pretty sure the Ticketmaster phone number from 1998 is now permanently embedded in his brain. There are grainy uploads with terrible sound taken on ancient cell phones, or, more likely, actual camcorders. 

There is a nauseating, shaky video that is only about 45 seconds long titled “CIRCUS DEATHS TRAGIC GRAPHIC WATCH AT OWN RISK” that doesn’t actually show John and Mary Grayson falling at all, but briefly flashes on their broken bodies, the blood soaking into the sawdust, and the tiny Dick Grayson of decades earlier, scrambling down the rigging, running into the center ring, and kneeling beside them-- blood soaking into the knees of his bright, cheerful costume. 

Tim gets that one taken down and then fires off a strongly worded cease and desist letter on behalf of Bruce Wayne and the Estate of Richard John Grayson to the name behind the screen name. 

The Brazilian troupe doesn’t do the quadruple somersault the same way the Flying Graysons did. Dick’s quad was all power and force. For all his grace and the carefully cultivated illusion of weightlessness, Dick’s quadruple somersault was a cannonball fired by a rocket launcher. 

If Dick was here, he would probably argue that what the troupe Tim found online is calling a quadruple somersault isn’t even actually a true quadruple since they don’t fully close the fourth rotation-- not like his. 

Not like the Talon’s. 

Tim spends an entire day roaming the Wayne family burial plots. The family cemetery is a magnificent garden at the bottom of the hill behind the Manor. Dick’s headstone stands out-- red marble in a sea of black and gray. Tim has always thought the four small robin statues-- two perched on top of the stone, one on each bottom corner of the base-- were a little on the nose, meant to represent Jason, himself, Steph, and Damian. Still, another part of Tim is fond of the robins-- Dick’s robins-- watching over their brother. Their namesake. 

_Richard John Grayson_

_~_

_Son. Brother. Mentor._

_Flying Grayson._

Tim circles the stone. He prods it and it does not move. The ground around it is neat and level and undisturbed. He scans the stone and the ground with his cell phone, linked to his own server that is connected to the Batcomputer, but not (theoretically) accessible by it. Nothing appears to be out of place. He is ready to leave and retreat to his data when Damian’s voice jars him, “Drake. Why are you here?” 

“I...why are _you_ here?” 

“I come here everyday.” 

“Everyday?” 

Damian narrows his eyes, “Every. Day.” 

Tim’s first instinct is to question it, to cast doubt on Damian, on his legitimacy as one of Dick’s heirs. The words shrivel in Tim’s throat though. He was there. He remembers Damian’s long days curled up on Dick’s old bed, the untouched meals, the hushed conversations down the hall, down the stairs, the question of what to do if Damian couldn’t recover, couldn’t move forward...and then Damian did, and Tim doesn’t know what would have happened if Damian didn’t. If he couldn’t. 

Damian is not Tim’s favorite person or even in his top 10, but Tim knows that Dick is sacred to Damian and Tim won’t-- can’t-- cast doubt on that devotion for the sake of his own gratification. Instead, he shoves his hands in his pockets and moves out from behind Dick’s headstone. “That’s...that’s really sweet, Damian.” 

“T-t.” Damian rolls his eyes, “You have not explained why you are here, Drake.” 

Tim decides to ignore the bait and avoid escalating. He shrugs, disarmingly, “It’s been awhile. Thought I’d say hi.” 

Damian appears to accept this answer. Tim decides to push, “Have you ever...noticed anything odd here?” 

Damian turns his head and scowls at Tim, “Odd how? What are you talking about?”

“Just…” This is bad. This is stupid. Because as much as Tim wants to believe that Damian is stupid, the fact is that Damian is not stupid. Impulsive, maybe. But not stupid. Damian is very much his father’s son, “I don’t know. Stuff being disturbed. The ground…”

Damian huffs and looks away, “Of course not. Pennyworth ensures that the grounds are immaculate. He ensures that there are fresh flowers every week, for Grayson, and for my grandparents, and even for Todd--- to keep up illusions, you know.” 

“I know that,” Tim says, “I know.”

“Then what are you asking? Out with it!” 

Tim shakes his head, “Forget I said anything.” 

“Bullshit!” 

Tim grins, small and aimed primarily at the perfectly level, perfectly green grass, “Don’t worry about it, Damian.” 

“I do not worry.” 

“I’m aware.” 

“You are behaving more unhinged than usual. What has brought this on?” 

“Don’t worry--”

“I do not--”

“It's a figure of speech, Damian, and I know that you know that. Stop being a brat.” 

“Fine. You may leave us.” 

Tim doesn’t ask who “us” is and turns to retreat. He stops halfway up the stairs built into the side of the hill and observes Damian, seated on the ground in front of Dick’s stone, running his fingers over the letters engraved in the granite and speaking too low for Tim to make the words out. 

He could lip-read, but Tim doesn’t do that. It feels too much like he would be intruding on something fragile, something that would shatter under too much prodding. Instead, Tim turns and leaves Damian in their brother’s shadow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the tags. It gets ugly in this chapter.

It’s Damian who spots the Talon, balancing on one hand above the bright, bright lights of the Conroy Theater in Gotham’s Cultural District. The Talon waves and then cartwheels across the roof, away from the neon and the spotlights and finally taking off at a sprint when it becomes clear that Damian has decided to give chase. 

And because Robin is in pursuit, so now is Batman. 

From the Cave, Tim broadcasts “Any particular reason why we’re going after the undead assassin right this second? It didn’t even engage.” 

"It waved at me."

"Yeah, this Talon is weird. We know. Waving isn't stabbing though, so what's the problem?"

“I’m sick of its shit.” Damian states. 

“Swear jar,” Tim deadpans. 

“Piss off.” 

“Wow, you kiss your mom with that mouth?”

“ENOUGH.” Batman cuts in, “Do you have eyes on us, Red?” 

Tim taps the screen to his right, with the city grid displayed in yellow and green, “You’re above Dufresne Street heading north. Sound right?” 

“Affirmative.” 

“I’ve tapped into the CCTV cameras above Peduto’s Deli and the Batburger on 5th. I can see you two just fine, but the Talon is--”

“Right there!” Damian hisses, “You stupid imbecilic--” 

“Hey, as long as  _ you _ can see him we’re good, ok? You see any others?”

Batman says, “Negative. We’re headed towards the docks along Bayshore Drive.” 

“Not a whole lot of cover out that way, Batman.” Tim says though he knows that Bruce knows the same thing, “Sewer access between docks 18 and 20, at the intersection with Finger Boulevard. I’m pulling the schematics up now.”

The schematics aren't terribly helpful. They’re old sewers out that way, some of the tunnels date to the 18th century. The maps that Tim has access to are nowhere near complete. 

“Batman, these maps aren't very detailed. You could be heading right into an Owl's nest." 

Batman acknowledges, then yells, “Robin, fall back!” 

Robin ignores him. “The Talon has swung below the cargo dock at pier 18.” 

“The sewer entrance is below the pier.” Tim states, “Do not engage. Fall back and regroup.” 

Damian switches off his comms and Tim states to Batman, “I take it you’re following him right.” 

“Hn.” 

“Cool. Fuck me, I guess.” 

From a corner of the Cave, Alfred yells, “Swear jar, Master Tim!” 

***

Batman doesn’t switch his comms off in the sewer because he’s a goddamn  _ professional _ but the tunnels go deep enough and run through enough questionable real estate that the signal is in and out. Tim has Black Bat and Spoiler on standby and floats the idea of suiting up himself, which Alfred immediately shoots down. 

“Remind me again why we’re chasing a Talon-- who otherwise has mostly left us alone-- into a mostly-unmapped sewer?” 

Tim gets static in response. 

“Have you considered just kneecapping Robin and dragging him back to the car?”

Nothing. 

“You know, if I had done this when I was Robin, I would have been grounded for a month.”

Tim catches snippets of garbled broadcasts for the next 20 minutes-- the sounds of a scuffle, splashing water-- and chews on the fingernail on his thumb. He engages with Oracle to see if she has any more intel on the segment of sewer Damian led them all into half-cocked. Babs points out that the neighborhood Bruce and Damian are currently under is called Old Town because, “well, because it’s old, Timmy.” Some of the oldest landmarks in Gotham are nestled in the narrow streets of Old Town: first church, first city hall, first theater-- all destroyed in the Great Gotham Fire in 1862 and replaced with far grander structures a few miles south, where the real estate was still cheap and the roads could be wider, the facades more opulent-- giving rise to Gotham's modern downtown in all it's brooding, gothic glory.

Babs says, “So the original buildings are gone, but the infrastructure is mostly the same down below. The current buildings all date to right after the fire, but it’s a designated preservation district, so there are rules about what can be done, you know?”

Tim knows.

Gotham’s subway notoriously doesn’t go into Old Town. Many of the streets are still cobblestone or brick. Oracle forwards Tim an article from a few years back, when the building above the former theater site was being renovated and construction crews had found the remains of the original stage forgotten in a sub-basement connected to the sewers--partly flooded and badly damaged by the fire, but still there. 

There had been talk for years about restoring the theater, turning it into a historical site, but there had always been setbacks: issues with funding, vandalism, accidents, the supposed haunting by an aerialist who burned to death in the fire, trapped in her harness high in the rafters. 

The restoration attempts have been essentially abandoned for two or three years now.

It’s at this moment that the comms crackle back to life and the monitor for Batman’s cowl-cam flickers. It’s dark, as though lit only by candlelight. Tim sees the Talon, looking regal and sinister in its goggles and hood and the addition of an ornate feathered cape draped over its shoulders-- speckled feathers in shades of gray, black, and white. To the Talon’s left and right, it is flanked by several expressionless white masks. 

“Oh Fuck.” 

Alfred glances up, ready to chastise Tim again, but instead, swears himself, when he sees the image on the screen.

***

“Can you see the feed, Red Robin?” Batman practically breathes the words, not wanting to draw the attention of the Talon-- and more specifically, the Talon’s keeper-- just yet. 

“Yes,” Tim’s voice is distorted, but audible, “I’m sending backup. Do you have any idea where you are?” 

“Below Federal Street, at least a mile inland from the docks. Restrained. Currently, the Talon, William Cobb, and eight Owls are present. It appears to be some sort of ceremony.” 

Batman and Robin dangle from the ceiling, their toes barely touching the filthy ground. There is a low stage before them below a scorched proscenium arch. Candles flicker in every crevasse, bathing the space in golden light and making the shadows dance. The white masks don’t move. The Talon doesn’t move. Cobb steps forward as though he is the ringmaster of his own circus. 

“Welcome, esteemed members of the High Court.” Cobb gestures magnanimously at the small audience of Owls, “And welcome, to our honored guests, Bruce and Damian Wayne.”

Beside Bruce, Damian stiffens, but doesn’t say anything. In his ear, Tim hisses, “Did he just--” 

“Welcome all to the investiture of our Gray Son!” 

The Owls on the sides of the dais clap politely. From the ruined wings of the stage, Cobb retrieves a woman tied to a chair, and positions her on the right side of the stage. He then wheels out a stocky bald man, similarly restrained, and another man, older, dressed in a wrinkled, but very expensive suit and also tired to a chair. 

Cobb positions them in a line before the Talon, “Councilwoman June Ortega, Officer Grady Bellweather, and the Honorable Judge Wentworth Greer: the Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.” 

Beneath the gag and the restraints, June Ortega shrieks and begins to pull against her restraints. Bellweather is saying something unintelligible behind his gag. The judge is silent, but trembling. Batman and Robin are restrained, dangling from the ceiling, but are not gagged, and Damian yells, “Leave them be!” 

This is a demonstration, Bruce realizes, as well as a ceremony. Batman and Robin are here by design. 

Cobb turns to the Talon who has been waiting, hands clasped in front of itself the entire time, head bowed, submissive, “Show them, Gray Son, show the High Court your grace and your efficiency.” 

The Talon sheds the feathered cape and circles the three condemned prisoners. Batman and Robin are working their restraints but it won’t be fast enough-- their belts and gauntlets confiscated and tossed in a pile behind the High Court. They have to do this the old-fashioned way and the old-fashioned way is painfully slow. Jason said this was the fastest Talon he’d ever seen and that speed and precision are on display now. The Talon vaults towards the judge first, plunges two daggers into his neck and uses the momentum to flip itself in a high arch over the police officer, embedding two daggers in his chest and finally, slitting the councilwoman’s throat-- all before it’s feet touch the ground. 

It approaches Cobb and kneels as blood begins to drip down the front of the stage. 

“You filth!” Damian is yelling, “There is no honor in your display. Am I supposed to be impressed?” 

“Quiet, Robin.” 

One of the Owls has risen, applauding. She crosses the stage, ignoring the blood that soaks into the hem of her silver evening gown. She runs a hand along the side of the Talon in a way that makes Bruce’s skin crawl. 

“He is beautiful, Cobb. But is he loyal?” Her hands roam lower, out of Bruce’s view, and brush against a place that makes the Talon’s shoulders twitch. 

“Madam,” Cobb smiles politely, “Has he ever failed to satisfy you?” 

Bruce knows it’s just a trick of the light that makes the woman’s porcelain white mask appear to grin, knows that the Talon has long since ceased being anything considered “alive” and yet still Bruce feels something sick and heavy settle in his stomach. He knew the Talons were essentially slaves of the Court. He knew that the Court saw them as little more than weapons or tools, but he thought that their usage was singular-- to slaughter and kill in the Court’s name.

Bruce is occasionally startled to learn that there are still pieces of him that are capable of being naive when it comes to the depths of depravity that men and women will sink to. 

“The incident with Jason Todd was a failure. We expect no such failures from our Gray Son.”

Cobb nods, “Indeed. And there will be no such failures again. He has been corrected.” He nods to the Talon, “Rise.” 

The Owl returns to her seat and whispers something to the Owl beside her. They confer and then she speaks, “We wish to see the Talon’s face. We wish for the Waynes to see the Talon’s face as he cuts their hearts out.” 

“Very well. Gray Son, reveal yourself.”

Bruce knows that time does not stop-- not really, not without metahuman influence or some kind of apocalyptic crisis-- but it certainly feels like it has, now, as the Talon slowly lowers it’s hood and pushes the ornate goggles to the top of its head, pushing back jet black hair that curls gently at the ears. 

“Oh my god,” Tim is still in his ear, “It's Dick.” 

Damian has stopped struggling and swearing and is just dangling there, mouth hanging open in a way he would have declared undignified on anyone else, “Is it him, Father?” 

Yes. 

“No.”

A clone. Did the Court have cloning technology? Perhaps they had gone digging in the multiverse for a different Dick Grayson after losing theirs. It is not--cannot be Bruce's Dick Grayson-- dead and buried and mourned and loved. That wound has finally started to heal-- but maybe it shouldn't have. Maybe, just this one time, the right thing for Bruce to do would have been to let Dick’s death destroy him. Consume him. Maybe then they wouldn't be standing here while that thing wears his boy's face and moves his body in ways that are so familiar and yet still so wrong.

“It’s him, Bruce,” Cobb seems almost apologetic despite his gloating, “It’s really him.” 

“We buried my son--”

“Yes, and we dug him up. And now he’s  _ our _ son.”

“Dick would never--”

“Oh, it took some convincing, certainly, and I would be lying to you if I said it didn’t pain me, at times, to deliver the discipline necessary to bring our Gray Son back to us, to his real family, where he has always belonged. But here we are. And now we know all about you, Bruce Wayne, and the masks you wear. Now the High Court knows. And once our Gray Son demonstrates his loyalty and his love, he will be presented to the full Parliament. And then they will know too. And all of your little birds will be picked off as they flee your burning nest."

“Enough monologing.” The woman Owl drawls.

Cobb nods, “Bruce and Damian Wayne, the Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.” He turns to the Talon-- to Dick, but not Dick, with the horrible white face and golden eyes-- “Begin with the small one.” 

The Talon flips off of the stage and walks to the two prisoners, face as expressionless as one of the Owl’s masks. It looks to Batman and then to Robin. It tilts its head almost exactly like an actual owl as its hands move to one of the numerous blades adorning its bandoliers. 

Damian searches its face for anything familiar, any warmth or hint that this is Grayson and not a shell merely shaped like him, “This is not you, Gray--  _ Richard _ .” 

Damian’s restraints are almost loose enough for him to slide his slender wrists out of the knots. The Talon circles him, long fingers brushing against the black and gold Robin cape and making Damian tense. When the Talon comes back around to the front of Damian, the fingers linger on the “R” emblazoned on Robin’s chest. 

“Please do not make me fight you,” Damian says low enough that the Court and Cobb can’t hear, “I do not want to hurt you.” 

The Talon withdraws a small, silver blade and says just as quietly, its voice a breathy rasp, a ghost of what it once was, “You may try, but you will not hurt me.” 

Damian’s wrists come free. Damian brings the sides of his hands down sharply on the Talon’s neck, momentarily stunning it, and wraps his legs around the Talon’s waist. The memory of sparring with Grayson is sharp and for a moment, Damian is lost in the familiarity. Then the Talon slashes and Bruce yells, “No! Dick, stop!” 

Damian falls backward, legs still locked around the Talon’s waist-- a classic Grayson move-- except Damian doesn’t have the weight or the momentum to bring the Talon down. Instead, he launches himself into a backflip, putting distance between himself and the Talon. The Talon launches a barrage of knives and Damian dodges each one....until he doesn’t. The blade doesn't pierce the kevlar entirely, but it stuns him, giving the Talon enough time to close the distance between them and pin him. The Talon straddles Damian’s stomach, pins his arms to the floor with his knees. Up close, Damian can count every discolored vein on the Talon’s face, tracing them with his eyes as they disappear into the collar of the Talon’s armor. 

Behind them, Batman continues to work his own bindings and fruitlessly commands the Talon to walk away from Damian, to leave him be. 

The Talon pulls a large blade from a holster at its hip and Damian raises his chin to look into the Talon’s yellow eyes. He takes a steadying breath and forces himself to smile, “I have missed you.” 

“I don’t know you.” 

“You do. Think about it.” 

The Talon blinks and something flashes in its eyes. They flicker to the dais, to Cobb and the High Court, and then back to Damian’s face, “No.” 

“Fine. But I know  _ you.  _ And you are not an owl. You are a robin.”

The Talon shakes its head and raises the dagger. Damian doesn’t stop talking, “Named by your mother, because you were born on the first day of spring.”

“No!” 

“T-t. Yes. Don’t be daft.”

The hand holding the dagger begins to tremble and the Talon makes a pained noise deep in its throat. It squeezes the awful yellow eyes shut. 

“I am a robin too,” Damian whispers, “I am  _ your _ Robin.”

The Talon flinches hard as though struck. It glares down at Damian and steadies its trembling hand. From behind them, Cobb practically sings, “Remember your training, my dear boy. Remember who your family is-- who you belong to.” 

The Talon’s eyes narrow and slide to the side, to take in the carnage on the stage, the dangling hulk of Batman. Its gaze travels to Cobb and to the Court.

“Slit his throat,” Cobb yells, “Slit his throat now! That is a command. You are aware of what happens when you do not perform as commanded and you have already earned yourself a lashing with these antics-- end it now and perhaps the High Court will be merciful enough to leave it at that.” 

The Talon tilts its head unnaturally again, and then, without looking away from Damian, flicks it’s wrist and sends the dagger slicing through the air, embedding itself in William Cobb’s chest. 

The room descends into chaos as blades fly from the Talon’s hands-- one slices the rope tethering Batman to the ceiling and several others are embedded in throats and chests and backs as the Owls of the High Court attempt to flee. The screaming stops as one-by-one, the Talon flips and flies, slices and stabs, executing the High Court in a brutal ballet, a death dance. 

Bruce has pulled Damian to his feet with a “We are leaving. Now.” 

Damian pulls away and strides toward the Talon, “We are not leaving him!” 

“Your judgment is clouded, Robin. Stay away--”

“ _ I _ am not leaving him!” Damian pulls a batarang from his tunic as Cobb staggers to his feet, but the Talon is quicker, and Cobb is weakened, the initial attack landing so close to a talon’s only real vulnerability-- its heart. 

The Talon--  _ Dick _ \-- rips the knife from Cobb’s chest, only to plunge it in again and again. The only sound in the dim cavern is the sick squelch of the knife tearing through tissue, then the sharp crack of bone. When he turns away from the corpse of William Cobb, finally facing Bruce and Damian, Dick’s paper-white face is splattered with blood and one hand clutches what they realize is Cobb’s heart. The Talon plunges a dagger into the mutilated organ, like the final flourish of a macabre conductor, then throws it on the pile of bodies on the stage. The Talon walks to the side of the stage and rips the tattered, moth-eaten curtain down from the arch, draping it like a shroud over the mountain of bodies. It lights easily when the Talon begins to overturn the candelabras adorning the stage. The room is suddenly too hot, too bright, too loud with the crackle of the growing inferno of the funeral pyre.

The Talon begins to remove its armor, tossing it into the building fire. It glances at Batman and Robin and hisses, “Leave.” 

Damian moves forward, but Bruce catches the edge of his cape and holds him in place. He speaks loud enough to be heard above the roar of fire, “Dick? Son, are you there?”

“The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.” 

“They’re not here right now, Dick. It’s just you and us.”

The Talon pulls a blade from a holster on its calf. It presses its hands to its eyes and makes a pained noise, “Bruce Wayne, the Court of Owls has…has...” With a yell, the Talon throws the knife in Batman’s direction, but the throw is reckless and unfocused and misses Batman entirely. It pulls a final blade from the holster on its other calf, holds it menacingly-- as menacingly as possible when stripped of its armor and trembling in nothing but it’s undershirt, blood and filth streaked across its face. Then it moves to point the blade at its own chest, pressing beneath the ribs and sternum and angled upwards in a clear path to the heart, “If you want it to stop, you have to remove the heart.” It blinks and suddenly makes eye contact with Batman, gaze earnest and clear, "You will have to finish it." The Talon trails off and that brief lucidity is gone. It nods to itself, absently, "He will finish it..." 

Damian yells, but Batman moves, lurching across the space between them and grabbing the Talon’s arm. The dagger enters below the ribs but pulls downwards instead of thrusting up. It’s enough to hurt, to damage the Talon, and it falls to its knees in Batman’s arms. Batman turns so his cape shields them from the pyre and Damian already has his own cape balled up, pressed against the wound in the Talon’s chest. The Talon jerks and cries out and Damian says, “I thought Talons could not feel pain.”

Gold eyes roll to meet green, unsteady, “I’m...different...special...”

The Talon coughs, red-black blood dribbling down its chin as it bonelessly turns to Batman, “Finish it…” The Talon's hands spasm, twitching around the hilt of the knife, wrapping Batman's hands around the hilt, "You have to...remove..."

Damian shakes his head, but Batman is motionless, and for one horrible moment, Damian realizes he’s considering it. Then Batman tells him to find their belts. Damian moves on autopilot, skirting the pyre and scooping up their discarded gear. When he rounds the corner of flame, Batman’s cowl is down and it’s Bruce Wayne’s tired face staring down at the dying Talon. Damian falls to his knees as the Talon’s chest stutters and there is more blood, flecks on Batman’s armor. Bruce has one ungloved hand on the Talon’s cheek, holding its face against his chest as the Talon takes two small, inadequate breaths and then stills. Bruce wordlessly closes the Talon’s eyes, looking stricken. The fire behind them begins to consume more of the stage. Damian’s hands twitch for his rebreather. 

“We have to get out of here, Father.” 

Bruce pulls the knife from the Talon’s chest with a sickening squelch and hands it to Damian. Then says, “Give me all of the sedatives in our belts.” 

“He is already unconscious.” 

“He isn’t going to stay that way. And we don’t know what kind of condition he-- it-- is going to be in when it wakes up. 

Damian hears the Dick Grayson who lives in his head snort and say, “There’s that famous Batman detachment.” 

Damian complies and hands Bruce a handful of single-dose sedative pens that go directly into the Talon’s neck, one after the other. 

“Now take one of the grappling guns. Break the casing and give me the cable.” 

Damian does as he is told and watches Batman bind the Talon’s wrists and legs in an elaborate array of knots. Dick Grayson would have been able to undo them-- all of Batman’s Robins could-- but it would take awhile, and the cable, tested to hold up to two tons, would not be broken. Batman pushes his cowl back in place, “Red Robin. Call off Black Bat and Spoiler. Have the Batmobile meet us at the docks.” 

“Done and done.” 

“Are we taking him home?” Damian asks as Batman rises, cradling the Talon against his chest as they make their way back into the sewers. 

“Back to the Cave.” 

That’s not home, Damian knows. That’s different. 

They don’t talk until they reach the car and then briefly argue because Damian insists on sitting in the back with the restrained Talon draped across his legs. They are silent again until the car is out of the city proper and then veers off the main road towards one of the Cave’s hidden entrances. The Talon is starting to twitch, slightly in Damian’s arms and when Damian peers under his blood-soaked cape, the wound beneath the Talon’s ribs has healed to look as though it occurred months ago, rather than just under an hour ago. Damian doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he says, “Father, what are you going to do?” 

Even though the cowl is still in place, it’s Bruce Wayne’s voice that responds, “I don’t know.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI I find action scenes incredibly hard to write. 
> 
> *flails*


End file.
